How not to arrange a date

So one of these days I'm going to stop writing this blog and start writing a book about the fun and games of being a single woman in London. Over the past 18 months I've had all manner of ridiculous slash depressing slash cringeworthy dates but what's just happened does, I think, surpass them all.

There I was on the hell that is Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon when I got a completely random call from someone who I thought said his name was H. I *thought* he was the rather cute cameraman who came and filmed me a couple of weeks ago. So I smugged out all the way home, and decided to call him back... to my horror (and probably his, tenfold) it turns out I'd misheard his name on the voicemail and it was in fact C, the soundman from the very same filming fun and games. Cue a VERY awkward conversation where we had to go ahead and arrange a date anyway.

This is going to be one to remember. Let's see if he calls back first. Or, even better, he tells H that I'm keen on him, apparently, and therefore H calls me.... a girl's gotta hope...